


Corridors Surpassing Material Place

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Inspired by THE look in Live Free Or Twi Hard...
Possible spoilers for everything up to 6:16.





	

“I feel stupid, Sam!”

Sam looks up at his brother from under his brow, a wry smile easing across his face. He resists the many tempting comebacks Dean just handed him on a platter. Too easy, and besides, he needs him compliant. 

“You look...fine. Trust me, man - we'll stick out like a sore thumb if we go in there looking like ourselves. We need these kids to talk. Now hold still.”

Dean rolls his eyes, keeps them skyward, and lets Sam hold his head still with firm grip on his chin. He flinches when he feels the cool point of the pencil snag the delicate skin beneath his lower lashes. Starting at the inner corner, Sam draws it outwards, and Dean represses a shudder at the way it follows the curve of his eyeball, pushing it back into the socket very slightly. How do women do this crap every day? Sam's hand moves up, his thumb presses and drags at Dean's cheekbone, pulling his bottom lid down, exposing the raw pink rim. The air on it makes Dean's eyes well instantly and he jerks his head back when he feels Sam try and put the kohl inside his damn eye!

“Sonofabitch! Are you trying to blind me? What the fuck, Sam?”

Sam sighs, exasperated. It'd taken them half an hour to get the point where Dean would allow him within a few inches without freaking out about the proximity of a pointed object to his eyeball and slapping Sam's hand away, let alone touch the eyeliner pencil to his skin. 

“You have to put the black on the inside of the lower lid. Like mine, see? It's perfectly safe and it'll just take a sec as long as you keep still, Dean. You'll look weird otherwise.”

“Otherwise? I'll look weird otherwise? OK Michelle Phan, give me the pencil. I'll do it myself.”

Dean snatches the pencil and stands so Sam has to lean back from where he's kneeling between his legs to avoid a faceful of crotch. 

“It'll be much easier if you sit back down and let me do it Dean!” Sam calls as he stalks to the bathroom and pulls the string on the little fluorescent strip light above the shaving mirror so that it blinks on. 

“Whatever, bitch!” Dean calls back. “How come you're so good at this anyhow? Something you wanna tell me, Samantha?”

Sam pulls himself up to sit on one of the single beds and goes to rub a hand over his face before he remembers he'll smudge his own make-up. 

“You know, you're the one being a little bitch about this, Dean. It's just a bit of eyeliner. Get over yourself.”

He tacks a silent “Jerk” onto the end.

Dean snorts, indignant, and tries to apply some of the black where Sam had been aiming for, but somehow his nose is in the way, and he can't angle his wrist right, and his hand's a bit unsteady and sweaty so the pencil keeps swivelling in his grip and - 

“GODAMMIT! Sammy! Get in here!”

Sam resists the urge to laugh (or maybe scream), and carefully purses his lips as he saunters into the bathroom. Dean has his back to him, hands gripping the edge of the basin as he glowers at Sam in the mirror.

“Hands aren't steady 'nough,” he mumbles.

“What was that, Dean?” Sam asks, his voice even. He's enjoying this now.

Dean's eyes screw up a fraction more and his jaw is set. He waits for a few heartbeats, then comes to a decision.

“I said, I can't do it myself. Will you help me...please?”

The last word sticks in his craw, but Sam relents and crosses the few steps over to his brother. 

“As you asked so nicely...”

Sam smirks and takes the kohl back. 

“Now look up.”

Dean does and feels Sam crowd him against the sink, big hand coming up to tilt his head up toward the light. Sam concentrates hard, little peep of pink tongue at the corner of his mouth as he very gently slicks black along the inner lid.

“There now,” he says triumphantly after both eyes are done. “Wasn't so bad, huh?”

Dean flutters the excessive moisture out of his lashes and turns back to his reflection to assess the damage. He's slightly shocked, truth be told, to see the way the black make up makes his eyes look bigger - so green and sharp. Feral. Slightly inhuman. Not unlike some of the things they hunt. 

He takes a moment to check out the effect on Sam. Well, shit. Sam's eyes are pretty damn spectacular. The vulpine slant is accentuated by the darkness around them, as is the way the colours radiate out from the pupils - burnt sienna through amber and moss to teal. Dean's never noticed his little brother's eyes quite so much before, but now he has, he can appreciate that they are quite special. Not that he would ever tell Sam.

Sam catches Dean staring for a little too long. He knows it's weird. They both look too different already. It's just a little make up but there's a hint of something...a nervous tension in the space between them. Neither will say it, but eyes should be clear and uncloaked. There is a peace and assurance in being able to find each other's eyes – to seek and get answers quickly. Fucked up eyes are bad news: Could mean drugged, could mean poisoned, could mean possessed, could mean bleeding out. 

Could mean soulless. 

“You need to blend it a little.”

“What?” Dean says as Sam's voice brings him quietly back to himself. 

“Here,” Sam offers, and then he's slipping the pad of his index finger across his tongue and dab-smearing at Dean's lower lashes. 

“Dude! Gross!” Dean whines, but doesn't stop him.

 

“We should park up here,” Sam says. “It's only a couple of blocks away.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean's eyes are like saucers. “I'm not walking the streets in this get up. I look like The Crow.”

Sam huffs a laugh.

“Dude, why do you even care? It's dark, no one here – or anywhere for that matter – knows you and we're, like, a few hundred yards from a goth club. We're working a case. What's the issue?”

“I feel stupid. This isn't me.”

Sam's eyebrows knit and he cocks his head.

“So you have no problem pretending we're FBI or firemen or reporters or priests, but goths is a no-no? Dean, seriously. Get a grip!”

Dean throws him a dirty look and pulls over. 

 

They walk the short distance to Sanguine, the leather trenchcoat Sam has procured for Dean flapping in the autumnal air. Their boots – black and flashing silver – are clumpy and make Sam even more looming than usual. Sam's wearing a fitted jacket and tight black jeans which leave little to the imagination. Dean's perturbed by how easily his brother seems to be carrying this off when he feels like a total douchebag. He's certain every pale, skinny poser in the place is going to be able to tell he's not one of them as soon as he sets foot inside. 

Sam eyes his big brother cautiously on the approach to the queue. There's something off about the way he is ducking his head and holding his tongue. Brooding. It's not like him to be so rattled by something as routine as a trail of missing kids and an MO which reeks of a travelling vamp nest.

On the corner of the street, just before they join the line of people waiting for admittance, Sam pulls Dean up with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You gonna tell me what's up?”

Dean's tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Don't know what you're talking about, Sam.”

“Come on, dude. You're actin' like a whore in church. What's with you?”

Dean snorts and avoids meeting Sam's gaze.

“I'm fine, man. I just feel like a total dick in this outfit is all. Let's get in there. Sooner we get some leads, sooner we can get out of here.”

Sam nods and they join the line.

 

The club is dingy and has that smoke machine and pheremone smell that always makes Dean feel loose and a little horny before a drop has passed his lips. But he's a pro – he'll keep his mind on the job and do his best to ignore all the latex clad chicks and their lingering gazes. Besides, he doesn't want to inadvertently add statutory rape to his rap sheet. The walls are deep red and a bassline throbs incessantly. It's like being back in the womb or inside a beating heart which, Dean guesses, is the point. 

He watches Sam catch the barman's eye with ease and lean over to order two bottled beers. Those pants really are tight. Dean ponders how Sam poured himself into them in the first place before he realises that he's staring at his own brother's ass and quickly averts his eyes. 

They've been doing really well since Sam got re-tooled. Dean is too jaded and has lost too much along the way to believe in lasting happiness, but having his little brother back in the shotgun seat, snoring softly, sipping a girl-drink coffee, reading a map or bitching at him for speeding, feels pretty close to it. 

There have been scares: Death's dry warning, Cas' voice chiding him as those limpid, ink-blue eyes bored holes through him, and Dean's own screaming doubts all teeming in his head while Sam was fitting and shaking on the filthy floor of a derelict house in Bristol. Samuel prodding and wheedling until Sam had put the treacherous bastard down for good. 

And Dean's not sorry he's dead. Knows he should feel something for his mother's blood but, at the same time, he'd have shot him in a heartbeat for selling them out. Would have done it for the simple fact he held up a mirror. Dean will never speak it out loud, but he knows that Samuel's fervour, his twisted need to bring Mary back at any cost, shines a big, harsh light on his own obsession with Sammy. And it is an obsession. Dean knows it for what it is in the darkest hours before sun up. Carries it around with him like a millstone, a badge of honour and a talisman all at once. 

Given the choice, would he do the same thing again? Hell, yes. But he reckons they're on borrowed time and that's the reason he didn't want to come here tonight. The last time they'd come to a place like this in search of vampires, the night had wound up with Dean getting turned in a back alley while his brother's husk watched on with cold fascination. 

And a glimmer of something else which has haunted Dean's most shameful dreams ever since. 

How long, he wonders, before some vignette plays out – something a bit too close to the last time – and Sam's memories come flooding back? It could be something as simple as the way a girl twirls a strand of dyed jet hair around a finger, a whiff of cologne, the smell of rotting blood on a vamp's breath. Dean Winchester doesn't scare easily, but he is terrified of Sam's memories – of losing what he's just won back.

“Here,” Sam yells over the music before handing Dean a beer. 

Dean tips it toward Sam in thanks and takes a long swallow. 

They hang in the bar area for a bit, watching the other patrons.To Sam's relief, they are not the oldest people here and their understated black jeans and tees fit right in. Lots of the younger kids are showing flesh in fishnet and rubber, but there are plenty of guys who look just him and Dean skulking about. 

Well, not many people look like Dean. Obviously he'd rather cut his own tongue out than admit it, but his brother looks incredible. Shrouded completely in black, his eyes ringed with it, his pale skin is luminous, his impossibly green eyes are huge and reflective like a cat's, and his lips...Sam looks away as Dean throws back another slug of beer. What's wrong with him? He should not be eyeing his brother's mouth as if it was a ripe fruit. Must be these damn pants. They're cutting off the blood supply to his brain.

Dean nudges him and, with a tilt of the head, indicates a young couple sat in a booth in a dark corner. They are both facing out, looking directly at Sam and Dean. He meets the girl's eyes and she laughs and buries her face in her hands while the boy whispers something in her ear. 

He looks at Dean, who quirks an eyebrow and starts for the booth. 

“Hey!” Dean says with perfect levity.

“Hey!” Says the girl, the laughter still in her voice. 

“Not seen you around here before,” says the boy. 

“We've been around,” says Sam.

“Nuh-uh,” the boy replies, his piercings catching the half-light. “I'd remember.”

Sam gives him a slow smile and Dean watches the boy's face light up. 

“Well, you haven't been looking hard enough.”

Is Sam flirting? With a guy? Dean ignores the tumult of weirdness that stirs in the pit of his stomach and offers to get a round in. 

When he gets back to the table, Sam has managed to steer the conversation towards the missing kid.

“Yeah, it's been a while since I last saw Chloe,” the girl says, fiddling with her straw, “It's not like we're BFFs or anything, but I used to see her in here. She started seeing this guy - he's older y'know? And he has his own car. Guess she outgrew us.” She draws little imaginary quotation marks in he air with her fingers.

“Maybe they eloped or somethin' stupid,” says Sam casually. “What kind of car's the dude got?”

“I don't know,” the girl shrugs. “A black one...”

The boy laughs and Dean realises they are both pretty wasted. 

“He been in recently? The guy Chloe's seeing?” he asks. 

“Nuh-uh,” says the girl, taking a sip of the drink Dean has placed in front of her. “But I see some of his friends around.”

She looks past Sam and Dean, her glassy eyes scanning the club. 

“There's one. Over there. Woman with the purple weaves and knee high boots. She was talking to Chloe last time she was in.”

Both brothers turn around and their eyes flick back to each other in silent understanding. 

“You know her parents reported her missing?” she continues, “but that's bullshit 'cos Jesse saw her in here after that. Right Jess?”

The boy nods and says “Bitch blanked me though.”

“You recognise anyone else?” Sam asks. “Anyone else Chloe's friendly with?”

“She's friendly with everyone,” the boy sneers, still staring hungrily at Sam. “Why are you so interested anyhow? Wouldn't have thought she was your type.” 

The girl giggles and, pretty as she is (for a goth chick), it's beginning to grate on Dean's last nerve.

Sam snorts.

“'It's not like that! Just...you know...wondering what's happening. It's been a while. And it's weird huh?”

“Probably meth,” the girl says matter of factly.

“Yeah maybe,” says Dean.

“So,” says the boy, leaning over and covering Sam's hand with his own, “wanna dance?”

Sam smiles, but before he has chance to make an excuse Dean is yanking him up. 

“He doesn't dance,” he says, latent anger heating his voice. “Two left feet huh, Sasquatch?” 

Sam is dazed but he nods agreement and Dean tosses off the last of his beer.

“Nice talkin' with you,” Dean says, shooting the girl a wink before dragging Sam off, leaving the two kids looking confused and more than a little disappointed.

“Dean!” Sam says when they're out of earshot. “What the Hell?”

“What? We got enough to go on for now. Sounds like they're recruiting. So we trail the undead looking bitch with the purple hair...unless you want to go make out with that scrawny brat in a cemetary or somethin'?”

“What? No! Of course not. Just – we need to fit in. It's the twenty first century, Dean - you can't act all shocked like that. And besides...that just came off a bit caveman.”

“What?”

“Well you're the one who always wonders why people assume we're...together.”

If Dean didn't know better, he would swear Sam is blushing. He's grateful that the red lighting in this joint hides the flush creeping up his own neck.

“Shut up, Sam!”

 

They return to the Impala for weapons then wait on the other side of the street until the vamp leaves. She seems to be alone, but they know she saw them in the club and if she's at all suspicious, she could be leading them into a trap. They split up. Dean follows her, keeping a slight distance, and Sam jogs around the back of the building, in the opposite direction, unseen and hoping to head them off.

Dean follows the mark down a maze of side streets, becoming increasingly sure she is drawing him towards company. He tightens his grip on the handle of the knife he has resting against his thigh. He can't see Sam. On the one hand that makes him nervous, but, he reasons, if he can't see him, neither can the vamp. 

The suspected ambush doesn't come, but when she turns down a dead-end alley, black and damp, Dean realises he's been made. She is on him in a flash, pinning him to the slimy brick wall before he can even draw his knife. He gets a knee up, scraping the heavy, steel capped boot down her shin and this startles her into to letting up enough for him to get a solid kick in. But she recovers fast and flies at Dean with such rage, he can barely keep a hold on the knife. He's cornered, needs space to get a decent swing. He sees her fangs break through gum and slide over her teeth, gets a hold on the long, purple strands of her hair and pulls with all his might, grunting in frustration when a clump comes away in his fist.

Then he sees Sam.

Sam rounds the corner, running flat out, just in time to see Dean tear strands of fake hair out of the vamp's scalp. Her teeth are unsheathed and Dean can't get his knife hand up. Sam's heart kicks up a notch – he's already panting from the sprint – and his blood is ringing in his ears. 

“Dean!”

He shouts and the vamp looks up buying Dean a chance to shove her back hard. Sam is coming for them full pelt, but as he nears, he gets an overwhelming sense of deja-vu. There's something devastated in Dean's expression as their eyes lock and his muscles want to sieze, to stop him in his tracks so he can take stock. There's something he needs to remember. He's dizzy and disoriented and Dean is yelling but he can't make out the words. But then he's there, blade drawn, and his arm comes down in an arc. Metal meets flesh, the sickeningly familiar feel of flesh parting, bone splintering, tendons shearing, and the vamps head hits the ground and rolls to a stop against the piss-stinking wall. 

 

It's a couple more hours before they get back to the motel after disposing of the body. They are both exhausted and Sam is wan and silent. 

Dean throws the ID and other bits and pieces they found in her pockets onto the locker between their beds, starts to take his boots off and says,

“Well, at least we know it's vamps. And thanks to Elvira there, we've got a few leads to follow up tomorrow. We should get some sleep. You want first shower?”

Sam slumps down onto his bed, and unbuckles his boots. Toes them off. Sighing softly, he looks up his brother and says,

“I remember.”

Dean's feels a chill start in the roots of his hair and trickle down his neck. He shudders. 

“Sam -”

“Why didn't you tell me, Dean? What I did to you?”

“You need to stop right now, Sammy. You know what happened in Bristol, you -”

“I let him turn you. I watched. I could've stopped him but I...I just stood and watched him.”

“Sam, please.”

“I...I...enjoyed it.”

“Wasn't you.”

“Stop saying it wasn't me, Dean! It was me. It was my memories, my mind, my body. I watched him hold you down and touch you, and force your mouth open and I...oh God, Dean.”

Sam feels shame coursing though him as his body recalls the filthy sweet sensations that flared in him while he watched his brother's plump lips prised apart – watched him get violated. He looks at Dean and sees his black-ringed eyes bright with unshed tears. And it's wrong – so utterly reprehensible to sit and watch him suffer like this while his treacherous dick fills at the recollection of how hard all that sway had made him. How good it was to just look. So pure and clean without the guilt muddying his pleasure. 

Dean swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, and smudges greasy black into the fine lines around his eyes, streaks it down his face, and Jesus Christ Sam is lost, because suddenly all he can think about is how perfect, how debauched and divine his brother looks like that. How his tears would taste. How other parts of him would taste.

“I think...I think there's still a bit of Hell inside me,” he says low and miserable. 

“No, Sam,” Dean says, his voice tremulous. “No, you're the best person I know. The best person there is.”

Sam's own tears well for his brother's bruised faith. 

“So why am I thinking these horrible things?”

“Like what?”

Dean is genuinely afraid of the answer but he needs to know.

Sam figures he deserves to hurt, so he takes a deep breath and lets all the dirty truths tumble out.

“Like...like how beautiful you look when you cry. How seeing you pinned like that...did things to me...how I wish I could blame it all on having no soul, but remembering it is getting me hard again right now.”

Dean drops to sit on his own bed like his legs won't hold him up. They are barely two feet apart, facing each other, heads bowed. Sam chances a look up and sees his brother, eyes so big and brimming, make-up smeared around them, smudged on his cheeks, his thin t-shirt doing nothing to hide the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His lips are parted, glistening wet. A beguiling mess. 

“Say something, Dean. Hit me. Anything.”

Dean looks up but quickly drops his eyes again. Sam looks shattered. It's too sad and there's too much love surging inside him to fathom, only Sam's confession has ripped so many layers of that love away that the dark and secret core of it is showing. 

Dean remembers Sam's eyes as his own mouth filled with the iron tang of blood. The quirk of his mouth and a flash of something dangerous and forbidden which piqued his basest interest even as his stomach turned and his heart flew apart. 

He remembers afterwards, in that period of uncertainty, when he was a monster, when Sam's presence drove him half out of his mind with desire. How it took every single scrap of self control he possessed to keep from pressing him roughly into the wall and sinking his teeth into the sweet, butter-soft flesh of his little brother's neck - taking what he wanted. His mind had been filled with the smell of him. It was all over him, inside him, and he could only think of the warm, hard feel of muscle and skin, the most delicious pressure against every part of him, how Sam would struggle and push as the hot blood pumped into his ravenous mouth.

“Maybe neither of us made it back unscathed,” he says finally. 

Sam stares at him hard, sees something break the surface, and pitches forward to his knees, his hands on Dean's thighs. They rest there for a minute while he tries to hook his gaze.

Dean feels the heat soak through his jeans, setting off a buzz which starts to spread into other parts of him – parts that shouldn't answer to his brother's touch. The heat creeps higher, and Dean finally looks at Sam's face. There is glow about him – rosiness across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks which makes him looker younger than he has in years. He's never been able to refuse those eyes, and he's amazed it's taken him this long to work out why. He knows in an instant this has nothing to do with Hell. It's always been in him.

“Stop me,” Sam says sadly, and Dean has no answer for that.

Sam get's up in his brother's face, mouths so close they can feel each other breathing, warm and damp. He tries one more time.

“Dean, you need to stop me.”

One fat tear breaches and rolls down Dean's face in the second before Sam catches his lower lip between his teeth. 

Dean lets out a moan as Sam slips his tongue out and tastes salt. 

“Stop me,” Sam whispers against his lips. 

“Can't Sammy,” Dean sighs, and then they are kissing, slow and deep and wet. Deans hands come up and snag in Sam's hair, his fingers digging into his scalp, pulling him in impossibly closer and licking into his mouth like he's starving for it. Sam nips at his brother's plush lips, drawing little grunts out of him. 

They break off for air, their eyes wide and shocked under the film of arousal and Sam stands so Dean is eye level with the outline of his hard cock, swollen in his tight black jeans. Sam pulls Dean's tee up over his head roughly, flings it away and ditches his own shirt. He's breathing hard and Dean leans forward to nuzzle the soft, vulnerable part of his belly exposed by the low cut of the pants. His hands slide over the sculpted planes of his abdomen and up to tug and pinch at his nipples. Sam gasps and his hips cant forward. Dean moans again and laps at his navel as his brother's eyes flicker closed and his head falls back. 

Dean licks at the trail of downy hair as his fingers come up to unbutton Sam's fly. Sam's strong hand closes around his wrist, so tight he can feel the fragile bones grind together, and he looks up. Sam's eyes are unfocused and his mouth is slack.

“We can stop. It's not too late,” Sam says in a broken voice.

Dean shakes his head slowly and another tear spills, sidewinding a path through the mess of eyeliner. 

“Yeah it is, Sam,” he says quietly. “Never told you this, but I remember Mom lifting me onto her knee one day, telling me it wouldn't be long 'til you arrived. That you couldn't wait to meet me. She said, “See! Your little brother or sister is trying to shake your hand,” and she took my hand and put in on her stomach, and I felt the shape of your tiny fist in mine – right through her skin. It was the damndest thing.” 

He's crying now. 

“Dean, don't.” Sam swallows hard, a knot of something painful lodged in his gullet.

“I wouldn't let her out of my sight after that. It's like I knew then – even though I didn't understand it – I couldn't ever bear to be away from you. You're the only reason I ever had. Guess I always knew it.”

“Dean.” Sam reliquishes his grip on his brother's wrist and cups his face in one huge hand. Wipes at the blackened tears running messily down Dean's face with his thumb.

“I'm sorry, Sam,” he breathes. “Don't think this has anthing to do with Hell. It's me. You're it for me. There's only ever been you. I screwed us up.”

Sam blinks and shakes his head.

“I try to fuck it out of my system. Drink, y'know? Tamp it all down. I throw myself into the job but, truth is - far as I'm concerned - the world's not worth saving unless you're in it. Found that out the hard way more than once.”

“You don't mean that,” Sam says in a barely-there voice.

Dean simply holds his stare in response.

“It's OK,” he whispers finally. “You don't have to say you feel the same.”

Sam lets out a pained moan and pushes Dean back onto the bed. He straddles his hips and smothers Dean's mouth with his own, hungry and violent. He wants to punish his brother for not feeling good enough, for blaming himself for everything wrong with their lives. For not quite believing that Sam would have followed him into Hell if there had been any way...

“You stupid fuck!” Sam chokes out between bites and licks. “Such a goddamn martyr. You honestly think I don't feel it too?” He grinds down against Dean, gets a hand between them and starts to work clumsily at their flies. “I'm nothing without you.”

Dean moans and Sam laps at his mouth, his neck, the salty wetness and soapy tasting make-up on his face like he can swallow his pain. He eases back up to his knees and finishes opening Dean's pants before shoving his own down under his ass. His hard cock bobs up – almost flat against his stomach – and Dean gawps at it, wondering where the Hell Sam's planning to try and fit that huge thing. But then Sam's touching him, slipping a large hand down his underwear, and Dean's mind goes blank. 

Sam draws his brother out and strokes his hand gently up and down his length a few times. Dean's looking kind of stunned, like he can't believe Sam is jacking him off, but he lets his eyes fall shut when Sam spits into his hand and uses it to slick up his shaft. 

Sam's eyes flit restlessly between his brother's blissed out face and his thick cock, slipping in and out of his fist with wet, sucking sounds. Dean's breath shudders in and out and his tears subside, as pleasure seeps, anodyne, through his system. 

He cracks an eye open to see Sam looking at him – the eyeliner enhancing the keeness and intensity of his gaze. There's a sheen of sweat on his neck and chest, and Dean puts his own hand over Sam's to still it as he feels himself precariously close to coming, and sits up to mouth at his brother's torso.

He puts one trembling hand on Sam's rigid cock while he nips and kisses his neck, tastes the fresh perspiration beading on his skin. It feels similar to his own, yet different. He's acutely aware of Sam's pulse, strong and vital in his throat and in his throbbing dick. 

He pushes ineffectually at Sam's skin-tight pants, mumbling 'off', and Sam scrambles up to peel them down properly. Dean skins his own jeans and underwear, laughing nervously as Sam gets a leg caught around his feet and curses. Completely naked, they stop and look at each other. Sam's eyes survey the map of scars that tell his brother's story, ploughing up memories of everything they've been to each other up until this point. It suddenly hits him that he's about to fuck his brother, and that punches the air right out of his lungs.

“Want to stop?” Dean asks, and Sam realises the scariest part of this is that know each other so well. Dean can see every flicker of fear and doubt written on his face. There is absolutely no place to hide. 

“You were right,” Sam says. “It's too late.”

Then they're kissing again and Dean feels the full weight of Sam pinning him down, miles of warm skin on his own. Sharp angles and pliable muscle, the likes of which he's never felt before – save for in the odd hazy dream which he'd always try so hard to forget in the light of day. He usually succeeded. 

Sam's cock nudges up against his brother's and Dean recognises the contained moans this elicits from back when they were teenagers and Sam had mistakenly thought Dean was sleeping. He tilts his hips up and Sam groans louder. This is more like the noise he remembers from when he'd stood outside the motel room listening to his soulless shell of a brother fuck some dumb hippy chick while he should have been out looking for him. At the time, Dean wasn't sure what possessed him to open the door and walk right in. Anger, he'd figured. A futile sense of betrayal. But that didn't explain why he'd stood there and watched Sam while he disentagled himself and scoured the room for his clothes, still half hard and wet from her. Now he understands. 

Dean's roused from these distracting thoughts by Sam reaching down to grab his leg behind the knee and push it up, hooking it around his hip. Dean's done the exact same thing to countless women, and he shivers as Sam's intention dawns on him.

Sam is watching his brother's eyes, so pretty in their blackened state, but there's a faraway look which means he's thinking too hard about this. Sam doesn't want him to think – just wants him to feel, and to know it's Sam who is about to make him beg for things he never knew he wanted. 

“You gonna tell me no?” Sam asks, and there's enough of the petulant little brother in it to make Dean feel a little sick.

“You gonna stop if I do?”

Sam gives a strange, almost apologietic smile and slides down the bed to take Dean's aching dick in his mouth. Dean arches off the bed in surprise, then brings one hand down onto that soft mop of hair to hold him in place.

“Oh shit, Sammy,” he pants. 

Sam smiles around his brother's cock and tries to emulate the things which have always felt good to him – long, flat licks all up the shaft, firm draws on the spongy head, swallowing him down as far as he can, teasing flicks of the tongue along the underside. If Dean's fingers twitching in his hair and the moans and gasps escaping him are anything to go by, it's not a bad suck job for his first time. 

Feeling bold, Sam shoves Dean's knees up and apart and scoots further down the bed, starting his licks at the tight, sensitive skin behind his balls. Dean flinches and says, 

“Sam.”

There's a question in it, or maybe a warning, so Sam presses his tongue to his asshole before he can start freaking out. Dean makes a startled noise but after a slight jolt, his legs fall further to either side, giving Sam better access. Sam moans and starts to eat him in earnest.

Dean has never been so on the cusp of coming for so long. Watching Sam's kaleidoscope eyes, black rimmed and blown with lust, staring up at him while he thrusts his cock gently in and out of his soft mouth pulls him right to the edge time and time again. He manages to keep from tipping over by taunting himself with snippets of the wrongness of this: Sam as a little kid with grazed knees, fighting in the back seat of the Impala while Dad threatened to knock their heads together, the first time he'd found Sam drunk on beer when John was out of town. But to his distress, those images get all tangled up in what he's feeling now and cease to be a deterrent. If anything, this flavours those memories with a little of something he can't swear wasn't there from the start. 

When he feels Sam's tongue breach him, he squirms and opens for it like he's been waiting all his life. He's momentarily pissed that none of his hook ups have ever tried this on him – not even the really dubious looking ones. 

He feels Sam chuckle against his hole before he really goes to town. And then Dean's babbling,

“Oh, fuck yeah. Sammy. Fuck me with your tongue. Feels so damn good. All the way in. Harder. Fuck me harder.”

Sam pushes in as far as he can, rutting his own weeping dick against the rough bedspread. He's so focused on the tight heat, the dark, intimate taste of his brother, he doesn't notice Dean give a strangled cry, and suddenly his dick is jerking and pulsing as he spills his release onto his stomach. 

Sam pulls his tongue out and levers up to watch the milky fluid pooling on his brother's belly, little rivulets running down either side of his waist, leaving a tickle in their wake. Dean's eyes are glazed. Sweat has spread the black make-up even further, up over his eyelids and down to make shadows underneath. His lips are kissed and bitten blushed. 

“God, Dean! You...you...Jesus. I made you come.”

He sounds like he did the day he first hit a bullseye on a tree with his Bowie knife while blindfolded. Dean's breath hitches at that. 

Sam is filled with a sort of awe and wanting like he's never known. He can't hold back any more. He scoops at the cooling mess with a long finger and starts to spread Dean's come around his tongued-wet hole. He gathers more and uses it to slick up his own cock. Manoeuvres Dean's legs up to wrap around his waist and leans into him. Dean looks at him for a second like he might refuse after all. But Sam takes himself in hand anyway and lines up, blunt head resting against Dean's spasming asshole. 

And Dean knows he won't deny him this. Knows it will hurt, knows Sam is big – really fucking big – and he's not used to this. He may even bleed, but he won't stop Sam taking what's his. What he's entitled to. 

Sam surges forward and all the breath leaves Dean in a rush. It's just the tip inside, but it burns. He feels like Sam is breaking him open, forcing this aching sort of vulnerability into him, but at the same time it's a strange new kind of power, and he absently wonders if this is how all those women feel when he spreads their legs and drives it home without a second thought. 

Sam has never experienced anything like this. He sinks slowly into his brother's tight, clenching heat with nothing but Dean's come and his own saliva to ease the way. His nerves are lit by a rasping pleasure which is almost full circle to hurting and he holds his breath as his Dean's hole swallows him up. When he is all the way in, he looks at Dean's face, wincing and flushed, and leans down to kiss him. 

“I'm inside you,” he murmurs into Dean's hair and Dean considers pointing out that he knows that – Jesus Christ – and how! But instead he hisses as Sam starts the slow drag back out. 

A welcome numbing settles over him after countless minutes of Sam breaking him down with a slow onslaught of rolling thrusts. He's really taking his time – probably to keep for shooting a while longer, Dean suspects, and he starts to relax a little. Sam gets one giant hand under his ass and pulls him forward, driving deeper, and Dean lets out a surprised grunt as his brother's dick hits something inside him, pleasure radiating from that spot and making his own cock start to swell again. 

It's not lost on Sam, and he grins, all dimples and blinding white, and Dean leans up to kiss that smile as a flood of affection roars through him. Sam moans and speeds up.

“Getting hard again, Dean? Huh? Wanna come for me again? Gonna get there twice just from my tongue and my cock fucking your ass, huh?”

“Yeah – Sam – Jesus – Yeah!” Dean pants, staccato words between thrusts as his brother's huge, lean body shunts him a little further toward the headboard each time. “There! Yeah. Oh – right – there – yes – yes – fuck me!”

And Sam is done, mouth falling open, brow furrowed, sweat damped hair falling into his beautiful, dark rimmed eyes. They widen, then screw up tight and he lets out a strangled yelp as he comes deep inside his brother.

Dean watches Sam fall apart, the noises he makes and the thought of his brother filling his ass with pulse after pulse of creamy, warm fluid is enough to bring him off a second time. His ass spasms wildly as his nearly hard cock leaks a fews weak spurts of clear liquid onto the drying mess on his belly. 

Sam slumps forward, his weight winding his brother, and Dean wriggles a bit, his ass feeling wet and loose around his brother's softening dick. 

“Get offa me, Ginormo. You're heavy.”

Sam stays put but lifts his head to look Dean in the eye. Dean tries to catch his breath in the aftermath and thinks for a second he might start crying again, although he's not sure why.

“We OK?” asks Sam, and his voice is so ruined, Dean can't find his own. He tips his mouth up instead and lets Sam take it in a kiss. 

As he lets sleep claim him, Sam marvels that they've found a whole new colour of freakishness to nail to their mast. The thump, thump of his brother's heart beneath his own lulls him, drawing him under like a siren song, and Sam realises that this is not merely their consolation prize. There are ugly words for what they've done, but while pain and suffering may have hewn their love, changed its shape when they were still too young to name it, it's that same warped devotion which has defeated Hell itself. 

Neither he nor Dean will dream of blood tonight.


End file.
